Being Good
by Ayehli
Summary: Sarah's ready to turn her world upside down. The Goblin King is happy to help.


They _would_ choose to have this party in a castle.

The irony is that teenage me would have eaten this place up, with its vaulted ceilings and shiny wood floors and chiseled stone alcoves draped with velvet curtains. But forty-five-year-old me is just sad at the fakeness of it all. The fact that the "stone" is most likely fiberglass, the curtains are dusty, and the floors are definitely faux wood.

The guests of honor are loving it, though.

Elliott's always been better at the schmoozing side of academia than me. I used to admire that, admire the way he could deliver an impassioned sermon about the importance of art to a crowd of rapt twenty-year-olds in the afternoon and then smoothly convince some gray-haired alumnus to make a five-figure donation in the evening. Universities were businesses. We both understood that, even if we didn't like it.

But then he started liking it too much.

He'd suggested this location in a departmental meeting, knowing it's exactly the sort of setting that would make a bunch of shriveled richie-riches feel like royalty and feel more inclined to empty their pockets. Choosing just the right food, just the right wine, just the right band (bassist, pianist, vocalist, smooth jazz). He's really, really good at his job.

Add that to the list of things I used to love about him that now just make me sad.

If he actually listened to me or anyone else he'd understand that the department doesn't need more _money_, it needs to spend the money it _does_ have on things like full-time professor and admin salaries and not ridiculous social functions and hundred thousand dollar distinguished speaker fees. But Elliott stopped listening to me a long time ago.

I'm standing next to him, resisting the urge to flinch every time his hand brushes the small of my back. We haven't touched each other in six months. Haven't had sex in almost a year. But I promised him one last performance in exchange for a fairly generous divorce settlement. Not nearly generous enough, given all the unpaid labor I've done over the years to make his career advancement possible. But at least I'll land on my feet.

In return, I just have to smile for a few more hours.

Someone hovers near us with a tray of exotic-looking canapés. I grab one and stuff it into my mouth, thinking that I might as well enjoy the very expensive food. And that this is the best way to keep from saying something shocking.

Not that there's any real danger of that. If I've become good at anything over the years, it's being diplomatic. Never saying what's actually on my mind, smoothing over other people's arguments, smiling when I want to scream. I've got a diary for getting my real feelings out. Several volumes of diaries, actually.

The canapé I've grabbed is good—some sort of avocado puree with onion jelly on a piece of perfectly toasted bread. I swallow and smile blandly as Elliott blathers on to our small crowd of identical-looking suits.

At some point I realize someone's talking to me. Elliott gives my back a not-so-gentle poke and I almost choke on my food.

"Pardon?"

Elliott's smile is even tighter than mine. "He was asking when you started working for the university, Sarah," he says, taking a very delicate sip of wine.

I hit suit #2 with my best smile. "Same time as Elliott," I say.

"I see. Do you do ancient Greek as well?"

"No, Latin." The warm smile I throw in Elliott's direction is some of the best acting I've done in years. "Classic combination."

"She was a spousal hire," he adds. The suits all nod knowingly.

_Ohhhh. You. Did. Not. Just._

Elliott was the spousal hire, not me. He used to joke about it, and I thought the joking meant that he genuinely didn't mind. But over time it became clear that he _did_ mind, and he asked if he could lie to people about it, and I said yes because I was still in people-pleasing mode and thought that lying for someone was a way to show that you loved them.

_Patience. This is the last time you have to do this. The last time you have to see him outside of work. Play the good wife for one more night and it's over._

Dear _God_ I'm tired of playing the good wife.

I excuse myself under the pretense of using the toilet even though I don't need to go. Perhaps sensing that I'm about to blow my top, Elliott follows me with some excuse about checking on the wine supply.

"Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all.

I grit my teeth and can't even bring myself to look at him. "It's okay," I whisper.

"They're old. They have certain ideas about how things should work."

_Ideas you've become more than happy to cater to._

I glance at him, at the faint hint of grey at his temples that, combined with a squarish jaw and sharply angled nose, seems to make female students' hearts flutter. I try to remember a time when I felt swoony over him, and I can't.

My silence eventually makes him clear his throat, his voice turning defensive. "You won't exactly be a pauper by next week, Sarah. Surely you can handle playing dutiful for one more night."

A graphic image flashes through my mind—of me ripping out a chunk of Elliott's throat and watching the blood gush all over his well-tailored suit. I almost wonder if he can read my mind, because for a moment he seems genuinely terrified.

But of course I don't do that. I just breathe in, breathe out, smile, and tell him I'll be back in a moment.

I duck into one of the faux-stone alcoves and sit down on a little velvet-covered bench, continuing to breathe in and out slowly in one of many anger management techniques I've learned over the years.

Except it doesn't really work this time. And the thought of staying angry kind of makes me excited, and it takes me back to when I was a lot younger and had a lot of strong feelings and dreams that have slowly grayed with age.

I also, inexplicably, start thinking about sex—namely, all the great sex that I _haven't_ had over the last few years. Elliott used to be hungry for me, but for a while now he's been indifferent at worst, accommodating at best. I'd been tempted more than a few times to get my needs met elsewhere, but I didn't, mostly out of fear and a general reluctance to upset the balance.

Another thing to make my blood boil, then—all the great sex I've missed out on by being so good all these years.

(I think he's been good, too. But maybe not. It would have been easy for him to have someone on the side without me knowing, and it says a lot that the thought doesn't really even make me jealous.)

I sigh and close my eyes, tiredness a lead weight in every limb. I try to remember the last time I felt truly thrilled at the prospect of everything the world had to offer, and one set of memories comes back clearer than any others, of that brief time when I felt absolutely terrified but also thrillingly, utterly _alive_. Of that person who awakened all sorts of feelings in me, and whose existence hinted that I didn't always have to follow the rules.

I'm so, so tired of following the rules.

So for the first time in thirty years, I speak a name that I haven't spoken aloud except in whispers or dreams.

"I really wish the Goblin King would come and help me fuck some shit up right about now."

* * *

I laugh as soon as the words leave my mouth. No Goblin King is going to show up and help me burn it all down. I'd have to do that myself, and I'm just too bone-weary at this point. And too scared, if I'm being honest.

I linger in the alcove for as long as possible before I know that Elliott will start to get antsy, and then I plaster the smile back onto my face, pat my carefully arranged hair, smooth a wrinkle or two in my most expensive dress, and head back to the dullest conversation on the planet…

…only to see a familiar face in the group.

He's wearing a suit that puts everyone else's to shame—dark silver-grey, perfectly tailored to his very lean body, with a dark-colored tie tucked into a vest over a white shirt. On anyone else it might seem vaguely costume-ish, but of course it suits him perfectly. His hair still has that wild look, but it's pulled back. He's chatting with Elliott and the other people in the circle as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and they all listen and nod as if he's been there the whole time.

I'm frozen in place a half-dozen steps from them all, my wine glass paused halfway to my mouth. I've truly gone mad, I think. I'll blink a few times and he'll be gone, or my eyes will stop playing tricks on me and he'll be revealed to just be another moneyed, overdressed potential donor that the university is courting.

It doesn't work, of course. He's still there.

And damn him, he glances in my direction and _winks_.

_Jesus Christ, Sarah. When will you learn not to casually throw out the words "I wish"?_

I'm frantically coming up with escape plans in my head, wondering if I could just run out the door and text Elliott that I had a sudden bout of food poisoning that couldn't be helped, not that he'd believe me, but of course just as I'm about to step toward the exit Elliott turns and sees me.

"Ah, Sarah." He beckons me over (like I'm a goddamn dog), and I feel my feet moving toward the group. "You remember Mr. Chatherton?"

If I'd been sipping my wine I'm sure I would have done a spit take. _Chatherton?!_

The Goblin King inclines his head ever so slightly. "Yes, we've met," he says, his voice every bit as smooth as I remember. "Though I wouldn't fault her for forgetting, it was some time ago, and I'm hardly that memorable."

Elliott laughs a little too loudly. "You're quite memorable, Mr. Chatherton, I'm sure."

I force my face into some semblance of calm and down the rest of my wine in one gulp, hoping it'll take my heart rate down a notch. "It's…been a while."

"Indeed." He glances around the room. "I used to be on your side of the desk, but now it appears I'm one of the poor saps that people like your husband flatter beautifully to fill the departmental coffers." He smiles at Elliott and the other men, who are looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Lovely food and wine, by the way." His eyes meet mine again. "Consider me seduced."

My face flushes at the way he says _seduced_. There's more chuckling, and one of the suits raises his glass in a halfhearted toast. "We're all happy to keep this institution on its feet as best we can."

"Hear, hear," suit #3 says. They clink glasses. The Goblin King winks at me again.

_I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it. I didn't—_

_Yeah, that worked really well last time._

He gestures at the band, which has just paused to take a break. "And lovely choice of music," he says. "I imagine that was your doing, Sarah. Could I trouble you to introduce me to them? I'm always looking for new talent."

I'm still staring at him, moderately dumbfounded, but then I realize that Elliott's eyes are practically begging me, and I know he's seeing dollar signs, so I smile and say "Of course. Come with me."

He offers me his arm and I take it, even though every instinct is screaming at me not to. I feel a slight jolt of electricity when I touch him. We move toward the stage where the band is taking a break, but when I'm confident that Elliott and the others aren't paying attention I yank the Goblin King into another one of those curtained alcoves.

"What in the _actual_—"

"Do lower your voice, Sarah. I haven't taken the liberty of magicking everyone's ears shut."

I grit my teeth, mostly because I'm getting very, _very_ tired of men telling me what to do. "What are you doing here?" I whisper.

He raises an eyebrow at me. "Helping you to _fuck some shit up_. As requested."

I roll my eyes. "You know I didn't mean—"

"Oh dear, are we _really_ going to have this conversation about how you don't _mean_ the words that come out of your mouth? Because that might have worked for a teenage girl, but you're quite a bit wiser now."

I watch as he sits casually on one of those little velvet-covered benches, making it look for all the world like a throne. "So what," I say, "you just hang out in the ether somewhere, waiting for random women to wish for things and then popping into their lives like a goddamn Jack-in-the-Box?"

He smiles. "You're hardly random, Sarah. And yes. I grant wishes. It's what I do."

I'm about to wish aloud for more wine—a truckload of it—but I'm worried that an actual truckload of wine might drive through the castle walls, so I keep my mouth shut. "So you're helping me fuck shit up by…showing up to this party and convincing a bunch of men that your name is _Chatherton_?"

"Grayer Chatherton, to be exact. Sounded appropriately moneyed and obtuse." He crosses his legs. "And suffice it to say that the mayhem hasn't begun yet."

I shrug. "So get to it, then. Set the place on fire. Turn the wine into lemonade, whatever it is you magic types do."

"Really, Sarah, that's hardly interesting." He stands and moves toward me until he's right on the edge of my personal space, and all of those very confused and alive feelings of thirty years before come back with a vengeance as I take in the sheer _presence_ of him, even without all the glittery clothing.

Except this time I'm not a child, and very little scares me anymore, so instead of cowering I just lean forward slightly. "And what _would_ be interesting?"

He smiles and doesn't back away. "You've been so, so good, Sarah," he says, his voice low in way that makes me think of not-good things. "So good, for so long." He reaches out to trail a finger over the not-very-daring neckline of my dress, and I'm amazed that I don't slap his hand away. "Nothing ever out of place, never saying or doing anything to disrupt the order, all in service to a man who really didn't deserve that level of effort."

I flinch and open my mouth to protest, and he presses a finger against my lips. "Really, what's the point in lying anymore? To yourself, or to him?" He slides that finger very, very slowly over my lower lip, and oh GOD it feels good. "So what would be truly _interesting_, precious," he says, "is if for once, just once, you did exactly what _you_ wanted to do, everyone else be damned."

My world has narrowed to his eyes and the way they're drinking me in. When I speak my own voice sounds strangely far away. "And what do I want to do, exactly?"

He smiles. "Obviously what you want to do more than anything is shock those idiots to their core." He leans in to whisper in my ear, and I inhale his scent. "Something I'm more than happy to help wi—."

I grab the sides of his face and kiss him.

It's the sort of kiss that I remember from my twenties and early thirties, the kind that waits only a half second before tongues and teeth are involved, with little moans and breaths of urgency coming from both mouths. It immediately sets the lower half of my body on fire. I don't want the kissing to stop, even though the way his tongue is going to town on the inside of my mouth is making me eager for him to lick me everywhere else.

In the back of my mind I realize that I'm doing something very, very stupid. Something that could make a total mess of the order I've been trying to maintain for so long.

It feels _amazing_.

I briefly come up for air. "Awfully bold," I gasp, "presuming that 'fuck shit up' means 'fuck me.'"

He pushes me back against the alcove wall and shoves a hand between my legs. "My kind don't _presume_, Sarah. We just know."

I grip his cock through that very high-quality suit fabric and enjoy the sight of his eyes momentarily rolling back in his head. "I'm not exactly a starry-eyed teenager anymore," I murmur against his neck, my hand exploring.

He chuckles. "Thank the gods," he murmurs back, his hand slipping into my underwear. "I much prefer a girl who knows what the hell she's doing."

He slips a finger into me, and I can feel that I'm drenched—something else that hasn't happened in a very long time. "So, so good," he whispers. "You'll need to be quiet, because you definitely wouldn't want them to hear us, would you, Sarah?" He pushes his finger in deeper and I cry out, definitely loud enough for people to hear. "Would you?"

"Not at all," I whisper. I quickly undo his trousers and hold him, hot and hard, in my hand, and if he's truly good at reading minds then he knows exactly what I want to do now…

He grins and shoves me to my knees. "Not at all the sort who'd suck a man's cock where anyone might walk it at any moment, are you, sweet girl?"

I stare up at him as I give him a long, slow lick. "Definitely not."

He grips the back of my head and pushes himself into my mouth. I moan, imagining the sight of myself on my knees in front of him—better yet, imagining Elliott's reaction at the sight of me on my knees in front of him, whimpering as he fucks my mouth, because this is what I've wanted for so, so long, to be fucked in a way that made me feel like everything I wasn't when I was with Elliott.

The Goblin King shudders and gasps, and I swallow every drop of him, some of it dribbling down my chin and onto my chest, and he pulls me roughly to my feet and slips his fingers inside me again, moving them in EXACTLY the way I need, until I'm coming against him more powerfully than I've come in a long, long time, my body clenching around his fingers as I gasp and shriek.

He smiles and gives me one more slow, lingering kiss. "I'd say that's a wish granted," he whispers. "Now go and finish the job."

And he vanishes.

* * *

I emerge from the alcove into a room that clearly knows something's up but is trying very, very hard to act like everything's fine. It's all I can do to keep from laughing out loud.

I make a very perfunctory attempt to straighten my hair and brush away the stains on the front of my dress, but really the point is not to bother. Elliott's look of impotent rage could burn a hole straight through my skull.

"Everything all right, Sarah?" he asks. The suits are very pointedly gazing at the chandeliers, their wine glasses, anything but the two of us.

I give Elliott a truly dazzling smile. "Everything is _wonderful_, darling." I reach out and stroke his cheek with a not-too-clean hand. "Just _peachy_."

And then I kiss him.

I know he can taste what's on my tongue, and the look of horror on his face is absolutely delightful. The suits continue to avoid looking at us, maybe still believing that the evening will continue as planned.

Time to fix that.

"He's so silly, isn't he," I say, batting my eyelashes at Elliott like a teenager. "Has a thing for his students. Always making eyes at them. Not very original, but you know." I feel the bodies around me tense. "Too decent to seek them out, I'm guessing, but he likes it when I pretend to be one in bed." I close my eyes and pitch my voice higher. "Yes, yes, Professor, fill me up, oh, it's so big, Professor…"

Everyone is staring at me open-mouthed, including Elliott.

Turns out I don't need the Goblin King to fuck some shit up.

* * *

The pistachio-cream profiteroles are my favorite, I decide later.

The party continues (I'm guessing with a hefty apology from Elliott about how I've been under a lot of stress or just switched medications), but I've happily relocated to the alley near the kitchen entrance of the fake castle with a plate of stolen hors d'oeuvres and a bottle of pinot noir.

Everything tastes amazing. Maybe in part because I've been crash dieting in the weeks leading up to this stupid party.

I haven't bothered to fix my hair and my dress, and I don't know that I will any time soon. I like the taste and smell of the Goblin King on me.

As if summoned by that thought, he materializes in the alley next to me and I don't even jump or gasp, because really at this point him coming BACK makes about as much sense as anything else. I acknowledge his presence with a nod and then turn back to my food, trying not to reveal that I'd definitely be down for a second—

"As would I," he drawls.

I groan. "It's rude to read people's minds in my world, you know."

"Lecturing me about manners? That's quaint, given the performance you just pulled off inside." He reaches for a prosciutto-wrapped zucchini flower and smiles when I smack his hand away. "Rudeness suits you, it seems."

I shrug. "Felt good for a bit. I'll probably be back to playing nice by tomorrow morning, if I haven't lost my job."

"What a tragedy." He leans in and nuzzles my neck. "I was looking forward to seeing more misbehavior from you."

I toss the plate on the ground, pick up the wine bottle, and take a long swig. "I do seem to have a thing for alcoves and alleyways tonight."

He licks wine off of my lips and pushes me up against the wall, and I have to admit I _adore_ this feeling of being pressed hard against something, trapped under the weight of someone who isn't likely to let me go, because I most certainly don't want him to. I can feel the hard angles and firm muscles of his chest and arms through my dress, and I want to press every part of myself against every part of him.

"The things I'm going to do to you, sweet girl," he whispers against my neck, one hand reaching down the front of my dress and squeezing my breast.

He moans slightly when I bite his neck. Hard. "Like what?"

His hand is massaging my nipple, his other one sliding into my underwear. "I was going to say that first I'm going to lick your sweet cunt until it's dripping, but…" He rubs his fingers against me and I gasp. He pulls them, glistening, to his lips and licks them slowly. "But that hardly seems necessary. And…" He tears violently at my underwear and tosses them to the ground. "Hardly what you want, I think."

I grab the front of his trousers and quickly unbuckle his belt. "Seems mind-reading does come in handy occasionally."

He tears at his own clothing, hikes the skirt of my dress up, and pushes his cock against my slick entrance. I gasp and push against him, wanting to be filled, but he pulls back slightly and smiles, one hand moving to grip my neck.

"I think I'll fuck you against this wall until you're screaming loud enough for everyone inside that building to hear." He pushes ever so slightly against me. "And if you're still hungry…" he pushes in further, "I might be generous enough to let you lick my cock dr—"

I grab the back of his neck and pull his mouth against mine, my tongue pushing roughly between his lips in the same moment that he fills me completely, and it's the most amazing ache, this feeling of being stretched and filled up and fucking _impaled_ on someone. I pull him harder against me and he mercifully doesn't resist, just lifts my legs and ass easily in one arm while he fucks me hard, each thrust more delicious than the last one.

"Sweet girl," he gasps, "would never scream so loud they'd all hear you, I'm sure…"

He reaches down and fingers my clit and I do scream, surely loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear, and he keeps thrusting into me as I spasm and soak his cock, holding on for dear life against this wall, in a dark alley, a million miles from where and who I was just a few hours before.

I don't think I ever want to go home.


End file.
